


「 crimson flower 」

by ToasTea



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because why not right, Cheesy romance, Diabetus - Freeform, F/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter Jorleesi, post-8x03, soft and squishy jorleesi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea
Summary: On their final night at Winterfell, Jorah tells Daenerys about a small holiday practiced on Bear Island once a year.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 73
Kudos: 106
Collections: A song of frosted bear kisses and dragon roasted chestnuts





	1. d[1]: "rather than a brilliant flower..."

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, beautiful shippers! It's that time of the year again where we all gather around our loved ones and rewatch family appropriate things like the Schweddy Balls SNL skit.
> 
> Here is part 1/2 of my short contribution to our lovely Winter Jorleesi event! This story isn't what I was aiming for originally. I just couldn't finish my first idea because my motivation to write became diluted from a number of things. Job interviews, finals, other obligations, and just overall being too tired all back-handed me as soon as my jet-lagged ass returned from Japan. It was only when I was at the gym the other day that I realized I needed to just start over, put the other thing on hold, and find inspiration elsewhere, which I thankfully did. 5 days before my deadline for this thing. LMAO.
> 
> But with the power of all-nighters, coffee, social media isolation, will power and absolute bullshit, I somehow managed to scrape by...I mean...ahem. 
> 
> _Not even close, baby._
> 
> The theme and title of this story was loosely inspired by LiSa's "Gurenge." Jorah lives, and that weird "thing" between Jon and Dany never happened which is why it's not mentioned. The story itself was inspired by my never-ending salt for season 8 and what happens when your anime trash self bleeds into your Jorleesi pile.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes if you find them...uhhh *slips y'all $10* it's not there.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

Her days were too busy, ever more so in the month that followed the long night. From fulfilling the inquiries of her people to attending meetings with Jon and his family, to coping with northerners whose gratitude for their deliverance reached their lips but never their eyes. Whose whispers she could feel prickling along her back like needles when she turned away. She wanted to be comforted, loved, held - all of the things a queen would never need. 

Her nights were not busy enough. Behind the privacy of her quarters, she missed the Essos sun, remembered the love reflected in the eyes of the Yunkish she liberated. Alone, the scar left behind by Viserion’s death ran deeper than she remembered. Her thoughts feasted on her loneliness like flies to a carcass . She would hide beneath the furs, but even under the plush material and the warmth illuminated from the hearth, she felt only colder. As though winter had passed for everyone except her. 

Her army protected the queen from the blades of her enemies, but only one man could ever protect Daenerys Stormborn from the aches plaguing her heart.

So when the maesters forbade her from staying by his side to decrease the risk of his wounds festering, she could only endure by herself. Be strong for someone who had done so for her those many years. Conjure images of him kneeling by her bedside, brushing her tears away with the back of his cool fingers, whispering to her, “do not weep for me, Khaleesi” in that soft and low timbre she loved so much. 

Just enough to keep her loneliness at bay, if only temporary. 

But when Ser Jorah roused two weeks ago, when they alerted her and she saw his eyes flickered open and a hoarse ‘Khaleesi’ passed his cracked lips, she willingly succumbed to the torrential wave of emotions quaked by the life beating just beneath her fingertips on his neck. Drowning herself in his blue hues and allowing them to cleanse her of the demons that had been haunting her since he’d fallen. 

Though weak, he smiled. And it was only from the slight pull from her lips did she realize it had been awhile since she’d smiled so genuinely.

Since then, she’d found it difficult to be separated from him. Requesting escorts, seeking his council when sleep eluded her - she clawed at any excuse to keep him by her side. It was selfish and unqueenly, but she couldn’t help the ridiculous fear that simmered in her chest when he was gone performing other duties. As though he were only tethered to this world still by a merciful string, and death was the puppeteer waiting for her absence to tear him away from her again.

* * *

On this particular night, when she is restless yet again, she requests for a walk in his company.

They are alone while the rest of the world slept, with only the sounds of their synchronized footsteps and the light jostle of the great sword on his back filling the narrow hallway. 

It’s comforting. Familiar. Just his very presence by her side fills her with more warmth than the torches that lit their path. 

She craves more of that feeling, vows to make it more of a routine in the future, but only if he wishes for the same. 

“You must feel elated to be up and about,” she softly says.

“If I was cooped up any longer, I’m afraid you’d have to send me back to the citadel for insanity.”

“If you were cooped up any longer, you’d have pulled your stitches from restlessness” she huffs. “I’d have killed you myself if that were to happen.”

He chuckles, a soft and smooth rumble that invokes the feeling of being wrapped in a warm blanket by the fire.

“I’m simply happy being able to protect and serve you again, Khaleesi.”

“I believe _I’m_ the one protecting you from bedridding yourself again.”

“I…appreciate the thought.”

She doesn’t miss the falter in his words. “You doubt me?”

“Not entirely.”

She frowns at this, but it’s not malicious and the smile she offers is but a friendly challenge.

“And what is there to doubt?”

“I do believe you’re fully capable of doing so, but if I felt faint suddenly with no one else around, I’m afraid...”

“Afraid of what?” she asks.

“We’d both be doomed, Khaleesi.”

“Then that will be how it ends for us, I suppose.”

There has been a shift in their conversations in the past weeks.

She notices this and she’s sure he has too. 

But she doesn’t fight it. Neither of them do. It takes him aback the first time, she remembers, but he has grown more comfortable. He is still careful in exchanging affections with her, allowing her to move first, but always returning in equal measure no matter how small the amount.

It was as though the many blades he had taken for her had also severed the invisible strings that’d been suffocating whatever it was between them all these years.

As though his fight against death had been victorious, and his awakening had purged her of their past transgressions together, the tears she spilled for him like poison being flushed from her body.

There is a new warmth between them but she feels as though it has been here for awhile. The air is lighter between them, like the first intake of fresh open air when stripping off a helmet worn for too long.

She doesn’t know where this fleeting feeling is taking her, but she plays along with it like she has been and indulges in its carefree nature nonetheless. 

“A queen ironically crushed by her incapacitated knight?” he jests. 

“‘A Beautiful Queen Crushed by the Overwhelming Adoration of her Handsome and Wounded Knight’ is more appropriate for the books.”

He laughs softly, the bashful laugh she has not heard in years. 

The one where his eyes tear from her gaze and meet the ground, where pink tinges his cheekbones and his feet shift nervously, his lips curl just enough so that she could see the whites of his teeth, if only momentarily before he tries to hide them again.

She remembers very clearly then. The small smile that radiated from his golden form in the Mereen pyramid despite his attempts to hide it. 

Except this time, the affection that brushes against her heart paints a more powerful impact. She doesn’t ignore it this time as she has done so many times in the past.

This time, she embraces his infectious mirth, her lips reflecting his smile as a quiet chuckle passes her lips in harmony with his.

It’s unqueenly, unknightly to be giggling like two teenagers on foreign lands in the middle of the night.

But she’s had enough of her duties, enough fighting. Just once, if only for a little bit longer, she wants to savor this while the rest of the world was asleep.

The distance between them is small. His height is more profound from here, but the urge to fill the tiny gap grows stronger.

She successfully, though reluctantly, buries some of the desire, but her hand reaches out on its own volition. Before she could think about stopping, her fingers plant themselves underneath his scruffy chin and tilts his face up to meet her.

She wishes to see his smile more clearly, and she does. A bit. 

It falters at her sudden touch, but the orange and yellow hues from the torches cast a warm light across his face, his eyes are a beautifully soft contrast to the sharp lines in his features, as though the flames were letting her see him for the first time. 

But what never fails to completely consume her are the affections he could never hope to hide reflecting in his eyes. It’s littered across his face, puppeteering his lips to form a delicate smile while his blush becomes more prominent under her scrutiny. 

She adores him, she realizes.

And the very fact splinters across her chest, spreading its roots around her heart. A rush of feelings that were akin to a flower that has not seen light since winter first touched the north. A torrential wave of affection so powerful, it bursts past her broken walls and drowns her eyes with unshed tears. 

It’s quiet, however, despite its strength. A resounding revelation that only she could hear in these empty halls.

But she basks in the safety and warmth created the spark between them for now, and tempers his concerned gaze with a watery smile.

* * *

Knowledge was his first gift to her.

She remembers that day when their path leads them to the library. The memory more vivid as she runs her fingers along the calloused spines of books on the shelves, the light from his torch behind her illuminating the faded covers, the history etched between the ridges.

“I still have them,” she says, mostly to herself. 

She doesn’t turn around just yet, but she can still picture the slight confusion furrowing his brows.

“Forgive me, Your Grace I don’t understand.”

 _Your Grace._

She is tired of it, has heard it too many times in the past month. Just hearing it, even from him, feels like a snake’s fangs injecting its venom into her bloodstream. Only serving to remind her of the weight she does not want to bear for the remainder of the night.

“Daenerys,” she corrects softly, turning to him. 

She sees his lips part, watches the conflict brewing in his wide eyes. He’s torn between his formality as her knight and his yearning as a man. 

But she also sees the brief flash of a painful memory that she herself had burned him with.

 _Don’t ever presume to touch me again or speak my name._

He is her strength as much as she is his, so when he is in agony, she feels it twist her own heart as well.

She wants to ease it from him, and bridge the gap left unattended by a mistake he has long been forgiven for.

“When it’s just us,” she continues after words fail him. “I’d like for it to just be Daenerys.”

A heavy breath slowly leaves his lips, his chest contracting as though she had freed one of his many shackles.

“...Daenerys, then,” he whispers, finally. Hesitantly. 

She smiles softly. 

She had always adored the way he called her Khaleesi, a term of endearment now between them as opposed to a title. But her name falling from his lips sends a pleasant tingle across her chest, like a song she wants to hear more of.

Satisfied, she takes his free hand and gently guides him past the tall shelves. 

“Songs and histories of the seven kingdoms. I still have them.” 

A beat before he remembers.

“You kept them,” he bewilderedly mutters, words fluctuating between a statement and a question. 

“Of course I did.”

“It was a small thing,” he says humbly. “Had my pockets been fuller, I would have offered you something more worthy at the time.”

She stops in front of the dim hearth, gently takes the torch from his hand and brings the fireplace to life with its flame. 

“No gem, no sword or gown could ever be worth more than the knowledge you had given me.”

She remembers him then - tall and gentle, his soft and husky timbre that went well with his gallant aura.

She remembers how his voice and just the very thought of _him_ brought her comfort in the many times she’s had to face the darkness. Defiled, raped over and over again. His books were a welcome distraction from the vicious cultural adjustment she was forced upon.

She could never forget that. 

“You honor me, Khaleesi.” The flickering embers illuminate his soft smile as he looks down for a brief moment. 

“The honor is all mine.”

* * *

There are chairs in front of the fireplace, but she deliberately moves one closer to the other before she sits. The flames are not the only things that keep her warm

He follows after, more gingerly so as to not disrupt his bindings. 

They are practically shoulder to shoulder, and she is suddenly blanketed by a pleasant urge to nuzzle his shoulder, as one does when they wish to bury themselves deeper under a set of furs.

She leans into it of course and carefully rests her head against his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t say anything, and the fact that he is more nervous than before is obvious to her now.

She has crossed the line between them with more than their flirty undertones as of late, and she walks beyond it with a sense of confidence and freedom she has not felt in years. But the deeper she treads the more unsure he becomes, like a man deciding between modesty or to partake in a luxury presented before him. 

To soothe his turbulent thoughts, she thinks of the many feasts they’ve had since their victory, the books she has read many moons ago.

“I don’t remember reading about any celebrations in the north.”

“Not the ones you can’t see, perhaps.”

“Oh?”

“Unless a battle was won or there were dead to be honored, northerners don’t have the luxury nor the patience for the extravagant frivolities like southerners do,” he says. “Even then, a victory celebration is but a loud feast with rambunctious drunkards trying to find womanly homes for their cocks.”

She giggles at that. “You seem _very_ fond of them.”

“I don’t like them,” he chuckles. “But they’re part of my blood so I can tolerate it. I prefer the smaller, more quieter celebrations.”

“And what would those be?”

“The ones behind the privacy of your doors, where you’re thankful the roof over your head is still there, the fire in your hearth is still warm, and the walls still stand to ward off the cold so that your nights are restful and days plentiful.”

She smiles, likes the simplicity and honesty behind the quaint rituals. “That sounds more like you.”

He grunts in agreement.

“What about on Bear Island?” she asks.

“Aye…” she feels the tension slowly leaving his form as the wistful nostalgia threads around his words. “There was...a small thing we did once a year. I assure you it’s not the most exciting, though.”

“Humor me.”

“When the climate is merciful and the moon is at its brightest, everyone gathers around the opening just beyond the warrior mother’s gate. Every family contributes at least one thing; be it wood, fish, venison, fresh water, pelts, sparring weapons, music, anything that can be given to add to the numbers.”

She watches him curiously as the fire’s shadows dance across his face.

“When night falls,” he continues, “the bonfire is lit and we celebrate the hardships we have faced, the obstacles we’ve had to overcome that mainlanders would never understand and how we have stood despite it all. We share meals and stories. Not many of us dance, but the few that do give quite the show. Most opt to spar and some just savor the warmth. However differently we choose to celebrate, we are united. Reminded of the tomorrows we have created for each other against all odds.”

It suits him, she thinks. Affirms the man she has known all these years. 

And it only serves to further nourish the adoration she already has for him.

“Just like the crimson flower that has yet to bloom,” he mumbled quietly to himself.

She’s not sure if she was supposed to hear that, like she was interrupting his wistful journey back to a time before his catastrophic mistakes. 

“A crimson flower? It’s too cold in the north for fruits to grow let alone flowers, isn’t it?”

“Not a real flower, of course,” he chuckles. “It’s only a silly legend we’re told as children, but it sticks with us like the plague.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a story.”

“Aye,” he smiles gently. “It’s a very obscure story that’s not shared very often beyond the island so I’m not surprised.”

“Do tell,” she insists, wanting to indulge more of his lovely drawl. 

“There are different versions of how it was brought about,” he says. “Some say it was what greeted First Men when they discovered the island; a lone flower, hiding its fire-kissed petals behind the sepals. Others say it is a message from the warrior mother herself, the red being the blood she spilled to give the island its life, and that is all that remains of her.

“The essence of the story remains the same, though,” he continues. “Many of the First Men left the island due to the harsh climate and the locale. But the ones who didn’t had endured, as if the flower itself gave them the hope they needed to continue on. It never blossomed, couldn't under the cold, but it never withered either despite everything. Like the blood and sweat on their backs were keeping it rooted and well.

“So when the First Men realized this,” he adds, “they moved it elsewhere on the island to try and preserve it at least, tucked away from the raiders and the rest of the world. A secret only Islanders would know of. Building as many tomorrows as possible for generations to come in hopes that one day, when winter is purged from the north, if only temporarily, it will offer Bear Island a season of prolonged summer-what we and that lone enduring flower have been awaited for centuries.”

“A flower that has never bloomed but has never withered either,” she echoes. 

_Sounds familiar,_ she thinks.

“Have you ever looked for it?” she asks.

“As a child, yes,” he chuckles. “As I said before, a silly legend the kids enjoy. It definitely helps keep them hardy.”

She hums in agreement, but her mind drifts elsewhere along the trail left behind by his words.

After a few beats of silence, she stands and moves in front of him, her form casting a small shadow over him.

“You haven’t celebrated in awhile, have you?”

“No, I haven’t seen Bear Island for…” the words trail endlessly to the unknown, and she sees the glint of regret briefly cross his features.

She looks behind her, smiling at the flames flickering in the hearth before she faces him again. 

“It’s not a bonfire, but why don’t we celebrate here?”

“Sorry?” His shock foregoes his formality.

“It won’t be as conventional, but…”

She gently takes his hand with both of her smaller ones, smoothing her thumbs over his callous skin and veins along the ridges. 

“...we’ve come so far with each other, I believe it would be well worth celebrating our journey together.”

 _How much we’ve endured,_ she says to herself, her heart clenching. She’s sure he’s heard it too as the flurry of emotions flicker across his face. Their imperfect journey mapped across their hearts.

She watches the bob of his throat as he swallows and stands.

“Y-Yes, if you insist, Daenerys” he begins, enclosing his other hand over hers. “I can fetch us something to eat if you're hungry or-” 

“Dance with me,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dude how many post-8x03 can-"  
>  **YES**


	2. j[2]: "...a lone and enduring one is more beautiful"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Casually twerks to Last Resort by Papa Roach and Just Dance by Lady GaGa*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a bunch for your lovely comments and kudos in the previous one. This was painful to dish out mostly because it was a last minute idea, but I appreciate you guys for sticking around. Y'all are seriously just the best. This fandom is THE BEST. This winter event is A BLESSING. I can only hope I don't disappoint with this ending. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He has faced death before, has also defied it more times than any sane man could.

He is strong and confident on the battlefield, wise and calculating before the war table. 

He is a man of Bear Island who fights with the strength of ten mainlanders.

_Dance with me._

But even the Night King himself was a pale adversary against the crushing strength those three words held.

Her request is a simple one. 

But his mind processes her words as though they were the most complex puzzle, his heart racing as though he were in the middle of a battle. 

Except this was a battle he could not fight using his sword, and he feels exposed without it all of a sudden despite its strap against his chest.

 _Ridiculous_ he thinks, but the very notion constricts his lungs nonetheless, makes something as simple as swallowing difficult as if he’d just ingested a pile of stones.

_Dance with me._

He waits for the gods to finish their cruel trick on him, to pull him from this purgatory, end the charades already, and take him to whichever realm they see fit.

“...Do you not want to, Jorah?”

But her small voice pierces his thoughts, shatters his doubts, and pulls him back to the reality his mind tries to dissuade him from.

The kind of reality where he’d been gaping at his queen without responding for so long that she’d started to grow concerned.

“I-” he starts.

But his nerves give him pause, and mixed emotions keep his lips from grasping words.

She mistranslates his lack of an answer, however for something else. “Forgive me,” she whispers, her cheeks slightly pink from embarrassment. “I...I didn’t mean to assume.”

The sadness grips her words and takes away her beautiful smile. She steps back with her head lowered, hand clutched to her chest.

The image nearly tears his heart apart. 

She has bared so much of herself to him tonight, more than he deserves. 

But in the midst of battling his own flaws, he has hurt her unintentionally too.

And suddenly his own foolishness shrinks rapidly against the elation he wishes to revive in her.

“No, I meant-” 

He’s rushing, like how a stubborn fool rushes into battle without a plan.

His hand instinctively reaches out on its own accord, fueled purely by his heart and natural instinct to protect her. 

But when she looks up, he stops himself in time, quickly reminded that she has permitted her name, not his touch.

His desire to gather her in his arms and cradle her to his chest is nothing when the trust she’d so graciously reinstated is on the line.

Even if the worrisome glint in her eyes tell him she would welcome him, he would never want to impose.

So he schools his hands by clasping them in front of his waist instead and clears his throat. 

“I...It would be my honor to dance with you, Yo-...Daenerys,” he admits, finally.

The soft smile returns to her features, but it falters a bit when she senses his trailing hesitation.

And gods, the way her brows adorably furrow when she’s unsure nearly undo everything he’s worked so hard to retain. 

_She’s just being kind. Don’t let it all fall now._

“But I’m afraid I…” He shifts uncomfortably, looks down at his feet under her scrutiny and clears his throat again, the air seemingly more dry than he remembers. 

“I’m afraid I’m not a very suitable dance partner.”

When he looks up at her again through his lashes, he can see the tension deflating from her shoulders as she releases a breathy laugh. A pleasant sound that caresses his heart softly and lifts the corner of his lips ever so slightly, and reminds him of waking to singing birds on a spring morning.

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m sure you’re the more graceful one,” he says.

“We’ll see about that.” 

She steps forward, closes the gap between them, so much that he is gifted a quick whiff of her natural floral and ashy scent. 

It nearly _intoxicates_ him, a pathetic notion that’s akin to a lightweight drunkard.

_Stop it, Mormont._

He watches her hands gently pry his clasped ones from its formality. 

“I don’t believe there’s anything more appropriate than terrible dancing to celebrate us,” she jests.

_Us?_

His thoughts are quick to temper that hope before he endangers his heart again.

_No, not like that, you fool. Your service to her. Your companionship._

“Of course,” he nervously chuckles, his eyes meeting their hands as he tentatively strokes his thumb across her skin.

Her hands are much smaller than his, a simple observation that both nourishes and withers the roots around his heart. 

“A-Are you sure about this, Khaleesi?” he asks, still not completely convinced she would ever want to dance with someone like him. “There are many other ways to celebrate.”

“There are,” she says, “but...I do not remember the last time I danced.”

Her eyes seem distant suddenly, as if she were ruminating on a past memory.

But it’s gone when she shakes her head and looks up at him again, a glossy smile curving her lips.

“So I wish to dance with you, if that is alright.”

“Of course,” he answers a bit too quickly, “but…”

And he is just as quick to correct himself.

She tilts her head to the side curiously.

“I don’t wish to hurt you, even by accident.”

It’s a habit that’s hard to break.

“You could never.”

Fishing for reasons to deter her from this idea.

“I…We have no music.”

Selfishly protecting his own heart.

To confirm that this idea of hers was but a spontaneous thing that came from his stories and from her affections for him. 

“We do...” she whispers.

His lips part to inquire what she means, but words are instantly muted when she frees one of her hands and reaches up to touch his cheek.

The grip he has on her hands tighten ever so slightly, heart quickening as her thumb brushes his cheekbone.

And despite his efforts, the sliver of hope he fights against everyday simmers again under the way her watery eyes map his face, as if she were searching for something he doesn’t believe exists.

“...but only we can hear it, my bear.”

* * *

He feeds the fire with a few more blocks of wood before moving to push the chairs out of the way.

He lags in his movements deliberately, but she seems more occupied by her thoughts and the hair she subconsciously fidgets with than his vain attempts.

 _It’s just one dance. A celebration,_ he thinks to himself.

That’s all. A quiet celebration between the two of them.

Once it’s over, he’ll escort her back to her quarters and everything will be as it was tomorrow.

He will simply treasure them, these sips of affection she offers him when no one else is around, and stow his heart away behind his armor when he needs to without hers in tow. 

He is familiar with it. The ache he will always endure, but endure it he will for the privilege of serving as her sword and shield. 

But the thought does not temper his nerves nor calm the vortex of emotions raging within his chest.

His back shields her from witnessing his shaky hands as he unbuckles the clasp at his chest that holds Heartsbane, and tucks stows it away next to the hearth.

He takes in a long breath and breathes deeply. He’s almost positive her eyes are watching him now. 

_You’re not going to war, Mormont._

When he turns, he’s greeted with that wonderful and soft smile of hers. 

He’s been blessed with it so many times tonight, he has to remind himself there’s not another man in the room.

He approaches, but stands a respectable distance away and waits for her first move. 

“I’d...like for you to lead,” she says as she steps closer to him. “Is that alright?”

Her words collide with his chest, a force so strong it literally knocks the breath out of him.

There’s no need for her to mention the underlying meaning behind them.

She remembers. They both did. Scars that will never fade for either of them. 

But somehow, she had managed to sever yet another chain he’d been imprisoned to. She had closed another gap between them and now, her heart didn’t feel so far away from his. 

She is allowing him to lead.

And most gracious yet daunting of all, she is gifting him presumption. 

Even if he was simply being delusional, even if it was only temporary, he indulges this gratuity she’s offered him, allows it to massage its balm over the marks on his heart.

He shuts his eyes to keep the swelling emotions from leaking.

When he reopens them, he nods wordlessly and reaches. 

But his hand is shaking.

His heart palpitating. 

He finds himself yearning for Heartsbane’s protective weight again.

_It’s just a dance._

_It’s just a simple celebration._

But it can’t be helped.

He has only ever touched her in order to protect her. 

The memory, the feeling of touching her so freely is lost beneath a graveyard of mistakes, regret, rejection.

But Daenerys…the feelings she invokes with touches of her own volition are unforgettable. Her caresses are wrapped around his heart, conditioned into his senses.

There’s a weight on his hand that draws him from his conflict, and he realizes that she has grasped his with both of her own to stop his shaking. 

She looks at him with such adoration, such forgiveness in her violet eyes that it swells his heart, and clogs the emotions in his throat. 

But she still doesn’t lead.

And it rends his feelings into more pieces when he realizes she’s only clutching his hand to keep it steady.

He buries the blistering desire to embrace this new freedom she has given him, so his hand respectfully opts for the area between her shoulder blades while the other gently grasps her free one.

There’s resistance when her hands grasp his wrists, however, and suddenly he fears she came to her senses after all and doesn’t want this anymore or worse - he’s overstepped his boundaries.

His heart beats in trepidation when her eyes never leave his.

He doesn’t look away.

He wants to. Needs to before he digs a deeper grave for his already bruised heart.

But he can’t despite the overpowering feelings squeezing his heart, trying to tear him away from her beautiful eyes.

Instead of pushing him away like he expected her to, she gently guides his hands around her waist.

Relief washes over him, but the new intimacy quickly stirs another conflict in his chest.

Before he can properly react, she fills the gap between them completely. Resting her cheek against his racing heart and gingerly curls herself into his broad chest.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers.

“No,” he croaks, his voice hoarse from her nearness, from the tension stiffening his posture, the struggle to keep his composure. 

“Are you lying to me?”

“I am not.”

He can feel her breathe deeply, her warm breath tickles his skin through the small opening of his tunic, her tiny heart pulses against his, her scent infests his nostrils and practically disintegrates his walls, the stray silvers of her hair teases the bottom of his chin.

It’s overbearing.

It weighs heavier than his armor, heavier than any valyrian steel sword.

He feels as though there had been eyes on them when it is only his own staring back at him.

He feels as though they can be heard when it is simply his fears and doubts trying to silence him. 

He has been running from a battle that only existed in the deepest recesses of his mind and flaws.

And when she gently nuzzles his chest, softly slides her hand up his body and places it above the wound that should have killed him, he can take no more of it.

He falls.

Succumbs to it.

Let’s it consume him.

Let’s it combust all of his walls like wildfire ignited, and burn him with a longing that he has kept locked away in chambers as dark as the ones she chained her children to in Mereen, let’s it cauterize the rejections and the cracks of his heart.

His arms envelop her small form, clutches the fabric of her coat like he never wants to let go, willingly intoxicates himself with her natural scent by burrowing his cheek against the soft tresses of her head, allows the press of her body to calm the winter winds swirling inside his heart for the first time and relishes the calm as though she were the beginning of something hopeful.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

And when he slowly releases it, he feels only the tunic on his back, and the body pressed against him. 

Even if it’s only for a bit, even if he could only dream that this would last forever, he is relinquished of his obligation. And for the first time in years, he feels like a man simply embracing the woman he loves in their own world. 

“Jorah?” she softly inquires.

“Hm?” he sighs.

“Dancing involves moving, doesn’t it?”

His eyes open then, and he softly laughs at his own forgetfulness, something he feels her mirror when she giggles, slightly muffled against his clothes. 

He can finally hear it then, the music she spoke of that no one else could and slowly moves to it with her.

* * *

He doesn’t know how many times they’ve circled the space in front of the hearth, not sure how deep into the night it is. 

The only truth he knew is the woman nestled in his arms, the hands that eventually found their way up his chest and around his neck, the fingertips absently playing with the hairs at his nape, the silver head resting against his heart, the slow and gentle sway of their bodies.

“I thought you said you weren’t a suitable dance partner,” she mumbles.

“And I thought you said that made the two of us,” he replies. 

“I suppose we have that effect on each other.”

“I suppose so.”

Words are light between them with long intervals of the silent melody performed by their rhythmic heartbeats and steady breathing. Frivolous thoughts come and go, but neither of them touched topics that would remind them of the reality they would have to face in the morning again.

She tells him about Tyrion’s inevitable influence on Missandei, and the first time her handmaiden told a joke to her. She tells him about the little things during their time in Mereen, stolen moments of humanity that occurred in his absence - a specific topic they both know has passed over and do not dwell over. From Grey Worm laughing for the first time, to Tyrion accidentally walking into the women’s bath and Missandei keeping Grey Worm from murdering the dwarf in his sleep for several nights.

But as the night continues passing outside, they both are aware that they must leave the little world they’ve created for themselves eventually. The reality of this spontaneous celebration presses harder against them, and he knows she can feel it when her fingers dig just a bit deeper into the sparse hairs on his neck.

“Would you do it all again?” she whispers, softly brushing her finger across the bandage peeking from his chest.

She doesn’t specify her question. He understands exactly what she asks regardless, but doesn’t answer right away.

He thinks about all of the times she has broken his heart, the times where he has shed his blood and his pride and nearly his life proving his loyalty to her, the greyscale that was practically flayed from his skin, and the blades that dug through his armor and into his skin that night. 

He thinks about the flower from his childhood, the one that has never bloomed but never withered either, a cycle he has been trapped in that he has long resigned to but lives on regardless because of her. 

He’s sure she knows his answer already, but he will tell her nevertheless. Always will whenever she needed to hear it. 

“If it meant that you would live to rule the seven kingdoms,” he whispers against her hair. “If it meant that you would be happy even if it isn’t me by your side in the end, if it led to this very moment, I would face it all again for you. For as many lifetimes as I need to.”

She doesn’t respond to what she already knows, what she cannot change about him, the very core that makes up who he is like the blood that streams underneath his skin. 

Instead, she turns her face more towards his heart and breathes deeply, her fingers gripping the back collar of his tunic tighter. 

It’s quiet between them again, but he doesn’t mind it and continues indulging in the warmth built between them. His hand gently cradles her head, his fingers card through her soft silver locks as he continues leading her around the floor. 

“I remember as a little girl,” she wistfully recalls after several beats. “Ser Willem told me all of the things that I would be able to do when it was my turn to sit on the throne.”

He doesn’t speak, only continues tracing her hair with his hands and leading her around invisible choreography mapped beneath their feet.

“He told me that a handsome knight in shining armor with many titles and riches to his name will sweep me off my feet and escort me to my coronation on his gallant steed,” she continues. “And during the feast, before our bellies are too full, he would offer me a crown of beautiful white flowers and ask for a dance.

“And we would dance as the people cheered and offered their blessings, surrounded by the best musicians of westeros, the most immaculate tapestries, marbled floors, polished stones, the sun beaming through mosaic windows as if it were the light of the gods themselves…”

Only when her words trail does he stop.

He wishes he could be that man for her, a man worthy of her, who could give her everything with the support of the world.

But he is far from it, and that very fact writhes and twists his heart everyday. He can only accept the stolen moments of affection like this when no one else can see. It is selfish, but he accepts the little things, especially when they are of her own volition.

“I’m afraid this is as close as you’ll get for now,” he jests as he glances down at her.

He feels her smile against him, and he’s glad he can at least give her some form of elation.

But he is soon forced to swallow the emotions that form in his throat when his thoughts wander. He closes his eyes and takes a steady breath before he speaks.

“He is out there, Daenerys,” he whispers. “The man you speak of. He’s out there, and he will come.”

“I know he is.”

It’s the truth, it’s always been the truth he’s known, but her affirmation still feels like a blade being plunged into his gut.

But he is strong for her, always will be. 

“I know he is because he’s quite frankly everywhere,” she clarifies with disgust lacing her words.

“I’m…” he begins, startled, “...not sure I follow.”

She finally glances up at him and rolls her eyes.

“Oh please, Jorah. Ser Willem essentially described every pretentious pig in King’s Landing and every man who speaks with the money in their pockets or the cocks from their pants whenever they see a woman.” 

Her words arch his brows in surprise, but he smiles at the fire she spews for the self-absorbed cultures of the rich. “Is it safe to assume you’ve grown past that then?”

“Long ago.”

“Aye, that’s good.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

“No, you aren’t,” he confirms.

“Of course I’m not.”

Their shared mirth illuminates each other as they share their gentle laughs. He can’t remember the last time he had felt so light or the last time he had smiled so much that it became a physical exertion.

But his eyes make the mistake of falling to her lips without his permission, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by her. 

The space around them suddenly feels smaller, the air is thicker, her arms around his neck feels tighter, he is more aware that his arms are too familiar around her waist-

He has to pull away before he makes a mistake.

But he doesn’t get a chance to do that because she stops him.

Her hand trails his neck, along his scruffy jawline and takes residence on his cheek. There is a wistfulness in her glossy eyes he can’t read, isn’t sure if the other gleam in her eye is just a reflection of his false hope. Regardless, he finds himself captivated under her gaze, feeling like a treasure map she was memorizing. 

His chest compresses and makes it hard to breathe under her intimate touch, and he resists the urge to lick his lips as her thumb gently brushes over them. 

“That’s not what I want,” she whispers, her breath fanning against his face. “That’s what the little girl might have wanted...but it’s not what the woman wants now.”

He swallows thickly, suddenly more self-conscious of the adam’s apple on his neck. 

“I don’t want a knight in shining armor or the empty jeers from people under royal obligation or the pretty walls and marble paintings,” she continues, brushing her finger against his jawline. 

“I want a knight who has knicks and dents in his armor from fighting, protecting, from proving where his loyalty lies but asks for nothing in return. A knight who has stood and returned despite the world forcing him to wither.”

He inhales sharply as her fingers trace his brow. “I want to dance with him in the company of only he and his heart,” she continues softly, “behind the aged oak doors and the worn walls that keep the cold out, in front of a fire that is all the more cherishable.”

She’s drifting closer, her lips are but a breath away, the grip he has on her waist tightens, her words coiling around his heart like a blanket too rich in material for his pockets.

“I don’t want a silly crown of white flowers. I want a lone, single flower, the one that has endured the most and struggles to bloom.”

When her lips finally meet his, he stiffens as though he’d been turned to stone. 

His heart continues racing against hers.

He feels a light that is familiar, yet unfamiliar warming his chest at the softness of her lips, and he closes his eyes to better carve this memory in case he wakes up from this dream. 

She is a sweetness he has never tasted before, a warmth that feels pleasant, almost too pleasant that he is still treads this sudden shift with trepidation. 

And when she slowly pulls away, he follows by instinct, not wanting to part like a hummingbird and its nectar. 

He reluctantly pulls back, and when he opens his eyes, she is still there.

She is real. 

And this is not a dream, but rather a dream fulfilled. 

Their next kiss is not as chaste.

Her arms completely snake around his neck when their lips mesh, pulling him closer as if he were still too far away, but she is still graciously mindful of his injuries. His hand slides up the small of her back while one cradles the back of her head. 

Her desire for him chases away the doubts, the aches chaining him from fully ravishing what the sweetness he has longed for, the noise that comes from his throat is almost feral as he drinks her in like a starved bee its last legs. The warmth is more profound in his chest, feeling hot under the weight of her body pressed to him. He feels light, nourished, fleeting even.

And with his eyes closed and their lips ravishing one another, he sees and feels it more clearly now than he ever has, as though winter had been warded away for the first time in years. 

She is the sun on the first day of summer, her beauty, her smile, her lips are the rays that illuminate and strengthen its weathered stem and nourish its color, and her kiss beckons the sepals to coil open after years of protecting its crimson petals underneath, dyed red with his blood, her enemy’s blood, with a center sweeter than any other in the realms.

When he pulls away and opens his eyes, he sees her again. Daenerys Stormborn, with her messy silver hair, her labored breath becoming one with his, her forehead against his, their noses affectionately bumping into the other, her wistful smile that never failed to add life to his heart, the sensual glint in her eye still fresh from passion she shared with _him._

“Daenerys, I…” he says between breaths, “I...This…”

Words fail him, but her brief hush and soft kiss is all he needs for now.

“I think I’ve...found it,” he whispers.

She returns his words with a watery smile.

“What a coincidence,” she jests, “I think I have too.”

He releases a breathy chuckle before leaning in, and kisses her again.

And again.

And again. 

And again.

Taking small sips in lieu of the passionate intimacy from before. 

“We should probably be getting to bed,” she giggles against his lips.

 _We also need to talk,_ a thought crosses his mind, but this nectar is intoxicating and he wishes to relish it until the last of its drop. 

“Just a bit more,” he hums. 

_Just a bit more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it from me! I hope you guys enjoyed this small little bit of diabetus, from yours truly. 
> 
> Y'all probably don't know this, but we're about to get nuked by a certain Jorleesi power couple and their fluff tomorrow. Clench ya booty cheeks and bring your sunglasses and lawn chairs.
> 
> It's gonna be a b i g o n e


End file.
